by AC Netzel
“What’s left to say?”
“Why are you doing this?”
“I’m taking back control.”
“Control of what?”
“My life. Deadlines. Death. My father. Lawyers. Obligations. Expectations. Pressures. It’s all noise. I’m tired, Julia. I’m so fucking tired of it. This isn’t what I want.”
“What do you want?”
“I want a day where I don’t wake up hating my life.”
“You’re in pain now. You’re grieving. Give it time. Things will get better.”
“I own the Central Park apartment. Did I tell you that?”
“Your grandmother’s apartment? She owned that?” Holy crap. I knew Ben’s family came from money… but that apartment elevates him to the “fuck you” money stratosphere. It must be worth millions.
“It’s all mine. She left it to me. I went there after I saw the lawyers. Looked around. It’s different now… felt like I’ve never been there before.”
“I wish I was with you.”
“Speaking of you… my grandmother left something for you. Apparently she had it added to her will the last time you spoke to her. I knew nothing about it.”
“For me? Why would she leave anything to me?”
“She’s not here to ask,” he says sardonically. “There. It’s in the bag on the coffee table.” He points to a plain brown paper bag sitting on the table in front of us.
I reach over and grab the bag, uncurling the crumpled top. I look inside, frown then look back up at Ben. I put my hand inside the bag and pull out an old book.
“Oliver Twist?” I ask, confused. “Isn’t this the book she read to you and Elizabeth?”
“The very same.”
“Why did she leave it to me?”
“No idea. Apparently, she had one of her lawyer flunkies go to her apartment and find the book before she died. They told me she had very specific instructions for you to have it.”
“She had a lawyer fetch the book?”
“Money talks. The kind of money she had does more than talk, it barks orders.”
“I don’t understand what this book has to do with me. You or Elizabeth should have it.”
“She disagreed.”
I glide my hand over the worn leather cover; my fingertips running down the small cracks in the leather on the edges of the book.
“Ben, I can’t accept this. It belongs with you.”
“It’s just a book. Keep it. For whatever her reason, she thought you should have it.”
I nod. “Okay.” I don’t know what else to say about this. I’m beyond confused. “Was it delivered here?”
“No. The lawyers gave it to me. They were supposed to messenger it to your place, but since I now have money that barks orders… they gave it to me when I told them I’d personally deliver it.”
“What did you do at her apartment after you saw the lawyers?”
“I sat on a chair and stared out the window, waiting for a stupid pigeon to show up. Must have been sitting there for an hour, maybe more…” He shakes his head. “Waiting for a fucking bird that never came.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Yeah, well… I made some decisions while I sat there wasting my time.”
“What kind of decisions?”
“Changes.”
“What kind of changes?”
“I’m going back to brokering.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Because I’m good at it.”
“You’re so good at writing. And you love it.”
“It’s easier to take away the things you love on your own terms than to have them snatched away without warning.”
“But…”
He interrupts my thought. “The business end of writing ruined it. This deadline, that deadline. I like things simple and straightforward. I just wanted to write. But something that simple got complicated. So you know what? Fuck it. I’ve taken it out of the equation.”
“We’ll figure something else out.”
“It’s not your problem.”
“Of course it is. If you hurt, I hurt.”
He shakes his head and glares at me. “Don’t be so naïve to think you feel what I feel.”
“I wasn’t saying that.” I slide off the couch, move to the floor, and sit next to his feet. Looking up at him, I try to grab hold of his hand. He snaps his hand away and stares at me coldly.
“God, Ben. Where have you gone?” I whisper, fighting the tears threatening to fall. He’s never spoken to me so callously before.
“I’m right here.”
I shake my head. “No. You’re not my Ben.”
“Maybe I never was,” he snaps.
I suck in a quick gasp and cover my mouth with my hand. He’s in pain and he’s lashing out. He wants the world to hurt like he does, and he’s starting with me. I look back up at him. His head is tilting back slightly, his eyelids heavy, occasionally closing. The afternoon booze fest is finally catching up with him.
“Lie down for a little while,” I say, ignoring his coldhearted comment.
He nods slightly and slides down. Lying on the couch, he turns around to face me. He opens his eyes half-way; they’re glassy, bloodshot and overwhelmingly sad.
“I took away your smile,” he says softly.
I shake my head. “You’re wrong. You’re the one who gave it back to me.”
“Why are you here? Why do you still love me?” he whispers.
“Because I have no choice,” I say softly, running my nails gently through his hair. “I’m incapable of feeling any other way.”
“You love me more than I deserve.” He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and drifts off to sleep.
~o0o~
I wipe away the tears rolling down my cheeks with the back of my hand, get off the floor and walk into the kitchen while Ben sleeps it off. I put a pile of plates and dirty glasses in the dishwasher and wipe down the countertop. It’s so unlike him to have his apartment out of place.
He hurts, and he wants the world to hurt too. I knew he was lost, but I had no idea I’d barely recognize him. He’s bleeding and I don’t know how to stop it.
I walk to the Coin Shrine. Maybe if I peek at his Work in Progress before he completely stopped writing, I’ll get a clue what’s going on in his head. Quietly, I turn the doorknob, open the door and flick on the light.
My hand flies to my mouth, shaking my head at what I see.
“Oh My God. What have you done?”
Slowly, I walk into the room. It’s ransacked. Torn apart. Every coin catalog once on shelves are scattered on the floor. Books and Coin magazines are thrown all over with pages ripped out, crumbled, and scattered all over the room.
Framed coin displays are pulled off the wall, the glass shattered in pieces. Now I know how he cut his hand.
His desk is cleared off; his laptop on the floor, pens, papers, and stapler are thrown all over the floor. Even the cast iron baseball bank I gave him for Christmas is on the floor.
Poor Ben. He’s lost; he’s hurt, and he’s so damned angry at the world. And he’s taking it out on all the things he loves. His writing. His coins.
Me.
I grab the small trashcan near his desk and walk over to the broken shards of glass. Crouching down to the floor, I carefully pick them up and throw them out.
Walking around the room, I collect the coins that flew out of the tossed coin albums. Once I gather them up, I sit down on the floor with my legs crossed and piece the collections back together one coin at a time as best I can.
I spot a familiar blue velvet box on the floor in the corner of the room. I recognize it immediately. My heart pounds and breaks at the same time. I know it’s his grandfather’s Drape Bust quarter he treasured. And there it is, tossed aside like it was meaningless to him. I stand up and walk over to it. The box is empty.
“I have to find it.”
I lift up books and coin magazines in a desperate search for it. I carefully lift th
e framed coin displays, mindful not to let any more broken glass fall to the floor.
“Where is it?”
Walking over to the desk, I check each drawer. Nothing. I crouch down, slide my hand under the desk and feel around for it. I feel the ridges of a large coin and I know that has to be it. I stretch out my arm as far as I can reach and grab it.
Leaning back against a wall, I stare at the coin in my hand, grateful I found it. Overwhelmed by the past few hours, I hold the coin tight in my fist, look at the mess in front of me, the product of Ben’s rage at the world… then break down and weep.
~o0o~
I blink a few times trying to focus on the image in front of me. I must have fallen asleep here. Ben is sitting in his leather chair, watching me.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I straighten myself up and notice the quarter is still tightly fisted in my hand.
“Sorry, I fell asleep. What time is it?”
“A little after seven.”
I nod, glance around the room then back at Ben. “Redecorating?”
A small smile curls from one side of his mouth. “Something like that. I’m sorry about all this.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” I open my hand, holding out the coin to him. “I found this.”
“Thanks. I’m going to box these up—put them in storage or sell them. I don’t know. I don’t want to see them.”
“But you love these coins. They’re a part of you... your memories.”
“I don’t want them anymore.”
“Okay.” I don’t see the use in arguing the point. I can tell, at least today, it’ll be a total waste of breath. His and mine. “How’s your hand?”
He looks at it briefly and back at me. I can see that the blood has been washed off. “Fine. It’s just a little cut, looks worse than it is.”
“Did you cut it in here?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “Probably. I don’t remember. I wasn’t paying much attention to my hand.”
I look at the chaos around us. “Yes, looks like you had your attention focused elsewhere.”
“Yeah, like you said, I was busy redecorating.”
“Remind me never to hire you as my decorator.”
He cocks his head and gives me a slightly amused smile. Standing from his chair, he walks over to me and holds out his hand. I grab hold of it and he pulls me up off the floor.
“Come on. Let’s get out of this mess. I’ll take care of it another time. This isn’t your problem to deal with.”
“I don’t mind. I want to help you. Please let me help you.” He knows I’m not talking just about this mess.
He sighs. “Let’s just go.”
“Okay.”
We walk out of the Coin Shrine and back to the living room. There’s an uncomfortable awkwardness between us. We’ve never been awkward around each other. Things feel different. Strained.
Ben grabs a T-shirt from the top of a pile of laundry folded on his dining room table and slips it on.
“Can I make you dinner?” I ask.
“I’m a little tired.”
This is his way to further distance us. He always uses that excuse. After seeing what I’ve seen, and knowing he’s on a self-destructive path… I’m not leaving. I won’t step aside and watch him do this to himself. I won’t let him do this to us.
“I’d like to make you dinner.” I know I’m pressing it, and I may bring back Angry Ben, but I can’t continue to let him push me away.
“I’m not much company.”
“I don’t care.” I stand my ground.
“I’m not much for conversation. I told you I’m …”
I interrupt him, not willing to take no for an answer. “I know. You’re tired. All the better to have me here to cook for you,” I insist.
He stares at me; his eyes still bloodshot from his liquid lunch. He nods his head minutely. “Fine.”
“Good. Why don’t you relax? Watch TV or something,” I tell him while making my way into the kitchen.
“I’ll help you,” he says, following me close behind.
“You will?” I can’t hide my grin. We haven’t done something together in what seems like forever.
He nods. “What did you plan on making?”
“Well,” I say coyly. “I happen to know an excellent recipe taught to me by an exceptional chef. Let me take a look and see if all the ingredients are here.” I open the freezer and find a bag of tortellini and a bag of baby peas. Then I open the refrigerator and take out a stick of butter and a block of parmesan cheese and place them on the countertop. “Yup, all here.”
“This looks familiar.”
“It should. You made it for me in my kitchen the first time we… you know.”
“Yes, I know,” he says softly.
“You depleted my energy with all the activities before we ate… this meal was supposed to fix that.”
“As I recall, it worked,” he smirks slightly, no doubt remembering our first time together.
“It worked very well,” I murmur, gazing at him longingly. I want to jump him and relive those luscious memories. Our first kiss, the first time we touched, the first time we were intimate—the things that lead us to fall in love with each other.
I miss him so much. His body, his soul. But there’s still this invisible wall up between us. I don’t understand why he’s keeping a cautious distance. We’re always so much better when we’re together, emotionally and physically.
“Can you put up a pot of water?” I ask.
“That was your job last time.” He tilts his head and raises a brow.
“I’m in charge of the kitchen this time.”
He grabs a pot out of a cabinet, fills it with water and puts it on the stove. I stand back and watch him. His body moves so gracefully, his muscles flexing through the T-shirt. I inhale his Benessence, that whatever the hell it is that I’m so attracted to and moan to myself.
He’s a beautiful man… a sad, lost, beautiful man.
I open the cabinet above me to grab the colander and jump up, trying to reach the top shelf. Ben comes from behind me, pressing his body against mine and reaches above me removing the colander. My breathing hitches upon our brief contact. I turn around while he’s still pressed against me until we’re facing each other. I look longingly in his eyes. He gazes down at me, staring at my mouth, with the same longing. I see it, I know I see it. My heart pounds rapidly, readying myself for a kiss.
But he doesn’t act on it and neither do I.
He closes his eyes briefly as if he’s pained and steps away from me, placing the colander down on the counter. I swallow hard and pretend I’m not disappointed, putting back on my happy mask as I finish cooking.
“Where’s your cheese grater?” I ask.
“In the drawer over there.” He points to a drawer near me, reaching across to open it. I reach in to grab the grater at the same time he does, our hands brushing up against each other. I keep my hand on top of his a little longer than necessary and blink back my tears as he pulls his hand away.
I don’t understand what’s happening to us. I feel it, the electricity between us, surely he feels it too.
“Can you grate the cheese while I finish up?” I ask as I pour the bag of tortellini in the boiling water.
He nods, takes the block of cheese off the counter, grabs a plate, and starts grating.
“Julia?” he asks, his back turned away from me.
“Hmm?” I hum, pouring the bag of frozen peas in the colander in the sink.
“You’re beautiful,” he says softly, never looking back at me.
I look down and smile to myself. “So are you,” I whisper, barely able to get the words out.
Once the tortellini is cooked, I pour it over the frozen peas and transfer it all back to the empty pot. After adding an obscene amount of thigh-increasing butter, I stir our dinner around until the butter melts completely, and the peas are thawed and hot. I sprinkle the grated cheese in the concoction then
grab two plates.
“Dining room?” I ask.
“Coffee table.”
I nod politely but on the inside I’m doing my happy drunk dance… The Broadway version, with colored spotlights and confetti falling from the ceiling.
Grabbing two water bottles from the refrigerator, I place them on the counter. After this afternoon, the last thing Ben needs is more booze in his system. Plating two dishes, I walk into the living room. Ben follows close behind me with napkins, forks, and the water bottles.
I put the plates on the coffee table and sit on the floor. Ben places what he’s carrying down and sits next to me. I grab the remote from behind me on the couch and hand it to him.
“Thanks.” He turns on the TV and goes straight to a Yankees game. This is the first sign of my Ben I’ve seen in a while. Maybe it’s like my mother said… his withdrawing and virtually disappearing from me was the ebb, and now I’m getting him back slowly… The flow.
“Is that a new player?” I ask, trying for some idle chit-chat.
“They just brought him up from the minors. This is his first at bat in the majors.”
“His mom must be proud.”
Ben turns his head and looks at me with an amused smirk. “I’m sure she is.”
He redirects his attention back to the ballgame. I study his profile, envisioning I’m gliding the back of my hand across his stubble, running my fingertips across his soft lips, raking my fingers through his hair. It’s more than just wanting him. I need him. Once I opened up my heart and let him in, I feel incomplete without our connection.
And something as insignificant as sitting on the floor together, eating tortellini and watching a baseball game, may just be the first step back to filling that void.
We continue to watch the game and talk baseball; avoiding talking about the one topic I’d rather discuss—us. But I’m not about to rock the boat. At least he’s talking. That’s a vast improvement over the silent treatment.
“Are you done?” I ask, looking at his clean plate.
“Yeah, I’ll clear off the table.”
“Let me do it.”
“No, you cooked. I’ll clean. Stay here and watch the end of the game.” He stands, clearing off the table and walks to the kitchen with his hands full.
I lean back against the couch, feeling hopeful for the first time in a long while. Yes, there’s still tension between us, but after having things strained for so long, that’s to be expected. I’m not foolish enough to think everything is going to automatically snap back into place over a baseball game. But it’s progress… even if it’s only a start.
